“Why, Dick,” said Penelope, as she tripped lightly in, clad in an artistic gray carriage gown. “I am glad to see you. I wish you had been earlier so you could have enjoyed a drive with aunt and me.”
“I have been busy,” Richard said bravely, releasing the hand she had given him on entering.
They sat down together on a sofa.
“I have been so occupied that I haven’t had time for a drive these last few days.”
“And have you discovered anything yet?” Penelope asked, eagerly.
“Well, not exactly,” hesitatingly, “it will take time to clear it all up, you know.”
“Tell me, do you know her name yet, and where she came from, and was she really murdered?”
“Slowly, slowly; would you have me spoil my luck by telling what I have done?” asked Richard evasively, his eyes twinkling.
“Oh, you superstitious boy,” laughed Penelope, lightly tapping him with her hand, which he immediately caught and held captive in his own.
“Don’t be unkind,” he pleaded, as she tried to draw her hand away.